Idle No More
by Simahoyo
Summary: Two things about my mother: She is the undisputed Queen of guilt, and she is the Keeper of Secrets. This felt like a big one.
1. Chapter 1

Idle No More

by Simahoyo

**My family is broken. At first I thought it was because of the insane circumstances of my adoption. Then, I thought it was the loss of her parents so early in my mother's life. Now, I sensed something else hidden away. Two things about my mother. She is the undisputed Queen of guilt. Everything is her fault–even stupid things I did long after I left home. She is also a great Keeper of Secrets. This felt like a big one.**

I really don't know why Mom had invited me to dinner. There was nothing special I knew about. Dad was off trying to find Ed Snowden. The meal was take out from her favorite Canadian pub, the one that turns Steven Harper's picture to the wall when she walks in. She was fidgeting, which is her biggest tell. I was mentally rehearsing how to get out of whatever she didn't want to tell me.

"Darling, I'm getting a special award from the government."

She didn't have to tell me which government. Dad has tried all my life to get Mom to change her citizenship. But Mom is Canadian through and through. "That's wonderful. When will that take place?"

"In two weeks. It's a strange situation for me. I'm proud to given this honor, however...It's being presented in person, by Steven Harper."

My head ached immediately. "Oh no. Mom, what are you going to do?"

She smiled in a way that made me extremely nervous. "Oh, I wouldn't miss it. It's televised."

Now my stomach was getting upset. She seemed a little too happy about this. "So, Mom, you are telling me that despite all your donations to Jack Layton and the NDP, and the fact the according to Aunt Sophie, you were the only teen in your school with a poster of Pierre Trudeau on your wall, that you are looking forward to meeting Steven Harper."

"Oh yes. Even though I was told there will be no thank you speech allowed."

I'm afraid I gave a sigh of relief. "I can imagine that would disappoint you. What is going through that slightly evil mind of yours?"

She laughed. "Aren't you glad you don't have to worry about inheriting that from me? It's just nurture you need to watch out for."

I sighed again. This was going to be one of _those_ nights. Maybe a change of subject was in order. "What do you plan to wear?"

"Something I haven't worn in so many years...It's in the attic. Come on up."

I followed her up past the labeled boxes, old trunks, and assorted left overs from our lives. There wasn't a speck of dust. This told me Mom had been up here fairly frequently. Dust and clutter were her sworn enemies. I followed her to a corner that held items from her pre-us life. I could tell by the labels and the printing on the boxes. All of it was in French.

Mom plunged her hands into a grocery box, flipping the top up. She reached in, carefully removing a fringed leather vest, made of brain-tanned deer hide which was so soft it almost flowed through her fingers. She held it up for me and I saw the complex quillwork forming vines and flowers. She turned the vest so I could see the back. I was surprised to see a white infinity sign. I raised my eyebrows in a question.

"There is something else, darling." Mom dipped into the box again, and removed a finger woven sash in the most gorgeous pattern of colors. I have never seen one so long.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Mother"? I know I was being rude, but something was going on. My family is broken. At first I thought it was because of the insane circumstances of my adoption. Then, I thought it was the loss of her parents so early in my mother's life. Now, I sensed something else hidden away. Two things about my mother. She is the undisputed Queen of guilt. Everything is her fault–even stupid things I did long after I left home. She is also a great Keeper of Secrets. This felt like a big one.

"Do you know what culture these come from?"

"I believe they are from the Métis culture from Western Canada. An amalgamation of French and Cree language and customs."

"Yes. These are mine, made by my Grandmother. Your Aunt Sophie has her own." She reached into the box again, taking out a book. She handed it to me. I knew it was special, so I handled it carefully. As I turned it over, I saw it was in a language I didn't know."

"Is this Métis language?"

"Michif is the name of the language. It's the book I learned from."

I tried and failed to hide my surprise. "Mom, are you Métis?"

She looked down, then back at me. "Yes, I am. And you have no idea how relieved I am to finally tell you."

"It's not something to be ashamed of. Not like being the daughter of a Mob Boss."

"That's not what it was like when I was young. Maura, you are young enough not to have that tightening in your stomach whenever people get too close to certain things. It was bad. We changed the spelling of our last name. We moved across the country. My grandfather was afraid people might discover who we were."

I reached out to hold her hand. Had so little time passed from a time of terrible racial prejudice?

I was beginning to suspect that this was it. The key to whatever made my family the way it is. I felt that inappropriate excitement when I think I am on the right track. I carefully schooled my features.

She let go of my hand to dip into the box once again. Out came one of those old fashioned family albums popular when Mom was a baby. The pages were black, and tiny, white, glue on triangles held the corners of pictures. I was fascinated. The photos were black and white, mostly of two little girls, obviously Mom and Aunt Sophie. Mom looked adventurous–ready to take on the world. Sophie was impish. I liked them both. My grandmother was a beauty, for that time. Black hair in a French roll, brown eyes wise beyond her years. She wasn't afraid of showing off her legs either.

My Grandfather had dark, curly hair, straight nose, dark eyes–which I knew had been green by looking into Mom's eyes. He had a military haircut. I had heard he served in World War Two.

I turned a page to an earlier generation. My great-grand-parents were typical Twenties young people. He was dashing, with his hat at a rakish angle. His suit was worn as if he owned the world, and his celluloid collar was stiff and high. She was a subdued flapper, hair cut short, skirt cut shorter. In the next picture, the clothing was Depression Era, and stair step kids were lined up in front of them. I smiled. There was something about this family that I liked. Mom reached over and turned the next page to me. My jaw dropped. Imagine being an American and opening a family album to find someone like Ameila Earhart in it. I couldn't quite believe my eyes.

"Louis Riel? He's your Great-great-grandfather?"

"And your fourth Great-grandfather."

"But, he's a national hero. He has a holiday. Why would this be a secret?"


	2. Chapter 2

Idle No More Chapter 2

**by Simahoyo**

**Thanks for your reviews!**

"Things have changed. Thank God. Imagine what it was like when a group of neighbors went to Louis Riel for help because some government surveyors were cutting up their land into lots. The railroad sold it to the government. The problem was, it wasn't the railroad's land.

He spoke both French and English, so he was persuaded to go and explain to the strangers that they needed to go away. Eventually, they left. His neighbors decided to vote him into the House of Commons. The second election, he won, so he went to Ottawa, to register his win. The government responded with a warrant for his arrest."

Mom looked bitter. I could understand her feelings. "They arrested him for winning?"

"They offered him a pardon if he would leave the county for five years."

"What? They arrested him for being elected, and offered a pardon if he got out of his own country?" I was appalled.

"So he went to Montana, where he married your 4th great-grandmother, and had two children, your great-great grandfather and his sister. He taught school for years, until people from his home persuaded him to come back and help them."

"I've heard some of this, but not from our point of view. What I heard usually starts much later. I imagine there were actual reasons they were fighting."

Mom nodded her head, her eyes snapping. "Land grabs. Anything people with bigger guns wanted, they got. So he organized them, and lead them until their final defeat. Then the land grabbers hung him as a traitor. Can you see now why we had to move, change the spelling of our name, and keep quiet about who we are? My grandfather would have been killed by his own army buddies if they had known who he was."

"You were afraid to tell anyone. So, why are you coming out now?"

She smiled that challenging smile–the one that told me someone was in trouble, and I was glad it wasn't me. "Darling, it's all about C-45. I cannot let such a bad law stand."

I remembered it was a bad law, something anti-Indian, and that Mom hated it. But I was ashamed I didn't know the details. I must have looked confused. Mom tilted her head and looked at me. I felt myself blush.

"You don't remember? Maura. I keep forgetting you are embroiled in American politics." (_embroiled? I helped a friend from my intern days run for President.) "_C-45 has three parts: Companies are allowed to pollute Native waterways. Money owed under treaties is withheld from Aboriginal women's groups, and individuals may now sell Indian land."

"What? One person can sell the land belonging to the whole tribe? I know that's what happened in Georgia. How can anyone even think of allowing that? That is terrible. Whatever you have planned, I'm in."

Her hug nearly bowled me over.

_Isles and Isles/Isles and Isles/Isles and Isles/_

Mom missed her calling in some ways. She could have been another Xenobia or Boudica, leading armies and planning battles. She sent me to the hotel where the event was planned, and had me, "case the joint." I drew her a map, checked where the video feeds would be, found the kitchen and the path to the room. Then I called my former intern, Sarah Harjo, because I knew she was involved in Idle No More, the Native protest movement. After that, I dropped by our favorite bakery to order the pie.

I had forgotten Sarah's hearty laugh, but when she heard Mom's plan, that laugh rang out joyously. It was Sarah who had informed me about what had taken place in Georgia, where two huge tribes had lost their land through fraudulent sales of all of it by single individuals. She could hardly wait to do the handoff.

I was nervous as all get out that night. Mom was dressed in her Métis finery, covered by a big shawl. I was subdued in a little black dress–vintage Givenchy. Sarah had checked in from her car after getting the pie. I'm afraid I reverted to little kid behavior.

"Mom."

"Yes?"

"Mom."

"Maura?"

"Mom."

She laughed and tickled me as if I was still five years old. "Do we need to take pen and paper to play hangman?"

"No. I'll be alright."

We took a cab to the hotel. I had to work to control my breathing. Mom patted my knee. I was feeling better by the time we got there. I checked my coat, and joined Mom inside the room I had already mapped for her. There were no raised platforms. That was good. Easier for Sarah to hand the pie to Mom. Also, after all her artwork, Mom is nearly ambidextrous. I decided to wander back to the kitchen and check in with Sarah.

The kitchen was filled with Latino workers, and Sarah was speaking to them in rapid fire Spanish. I could follow her somewhat thanks to my Italian. She was recruiting them to Idle No More, or, as they were hearing it, _Ocioso No Más_. I could tell she was making the point that All Native People were in the same situation, and she clued them into what Mom was doing, and why. They all laughed, saying, "_Si, bueno! Es un idea brilliente!_"

I hugged her hello. "Thank you. I really appreciate your help."

"I had to be part of this. Granny says, 'Hi.', and look, the perfect color."

The whipped topping was a bright, NDP orange. "Mom will love it. By the way, she called ahead to make sure she was last, but before 9 PM. That way it makes to ten o'clock news."

Sarah smirked. "How is your father going to take this?"

I gulped. "I hadn't thought of that. Dad could be anywhere–he's trying to find Ed Snowden. He could be in Moscow. What he doesn't see, won't hurt him, right?"

Sarah gave me a doubtful look. "If we're lucky, it will only be on the National. Americans never pay attention to Canadian news." My neck started to itch. I excused myself and used my epipen in the lady's room. Then I rejoined Mom.

The room was nearly full. I noticed Allison Cameron, dressed to the nines. I like her music, so I was happy she was being honored. A rather familiar beard was across the room, and my heart thumped as Farley Mowat smiled at me. I'm a bit in love with his mind. I was now torn. I admired these people. I wanted them to have a good experience. But Mom and her family needed to take charge of their lives, and I knew this might do it.

Mom was standing beside me. I need to put a bell on her. She took me by the hand, leaning into me. Her hand was cold. I looked into those jade eyes, and I had to do this for her. The flurry of activity that said it was time to start told me to be ready. I kissed her on the cheek. "I love you."

She kissed me back and smiled, then put on a brave face, joining the other honorees. I programed my cell phone to be ready to text Sarah.

I stood for the national anthem, which was entirely in English, I noticed. I also noticed both Mom and I sang it bi-lingual anyway. The Television cameras were cranking. George Stephanopoulos was hosting, and then Steven Harper was introduced. I forced myself to stand up for him. I was happy the honorees were already standing.

Mom had set it up so the others were honored first, and I smiled at the long list of their accomplishments. My applause was enthusiastic. Mom was up. I removed her shawl, and there was an audible gasp at what she was wearing. Farley Mowat winked at her. I stood back and texted Sarah.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Idle No More Chapter 3

by Simahoyo

My hand shook as I hit send. Mom's chin was raised in pride, as Steven Harper walked toward her, dangling the medallion from his hands. George Stephanopoulos read off her accomplishments and I checked my watch. I had timed the walk from the kitchen. My pulse was racing. George was getting to this year when the door opened, and Sarah walked in with the pie hidden under a cloth napkin. She was just about behind Mom when George finished the list. Mom bowed her head to receive the medallion, while reaching behind her with her palm up. The handoff was flawless. As Harper and Mom both raised their heads, Mom's hand came to the front, raised up and delivered the pie right in his face. It was perfect.

"This is for C-45, and my ancestor, Louis Riel!"

Sarah yelled, "Idle no more!" and pumped her fist. I dropped the shawl over Mom's shoulders and we ran for it. I was halfway down the hall when I realized I had checked my coat. Sarah looked at me, waving my coat. "Looking for this?" She'd obviously done these things before.

Once outside we jumped into Sarah's car. She actually managed a tire squeal. I felt like Serpico. Mom was laughing. Sarah dropped us off at the Beacon Hill house, where Mom and I changed into casual clothing, and turned on the TV news. We started with the local news, and there was a teaser about making the Prime Minister of Canada feel unwelcome in Boston. We watched that one, where the camera was mostly on Harper, and I heard Sarah.

"They missed the point." I was disappointed.

"Peter Mansbridge knows me. He's get it right."

He did too. He even gave a little history on Louis Riel. He's now my favorite newscaster. Mom changed the channel.

"FOX? Why them?"

"I know they will make something out of it and I want to know what."

I expected them to mock what Mom did, and ignore why, but I couldn't believe what they called her, "Rumored paramour of former NDP head Jack Layton." Her face flushed in anger.

And her cell phone rang.

"Hello Benny." She turned on the speaker. Dad was worked up.

"I'm going to wring that fool's neck! I'm suing for defamation! Next time I see him, I really will punch him in the face."

"Hi, Dad."

"Uh, oh, hi Maura. You looked just like Audrey Hepburn on TV."

"You can't sue him, dear. It's best just to ignore him. Peter did a lovely job covering my little protest, don't you think?"

There was a minute of silence. "Yes, dear. At least you had a better day than Evo Morales. I got an interview with him. It will be out tomorrow. I'm in Quito right now. I'll be back in two days. I miss you both. Hugs and kisses."

Mom finished the call in private. I laughed to myself. They are still in love after all this time. I thought about how far we had come since the days of Louis Riel, and despite how silly it might seem, I think we made a difference. I imagined all those people in the photo album smiling and holding their heads a little higher.

The end


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